


Birds of a Feather

by blackchaps



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Slash, Star Trek - Freeform, The Machine - Freeform, Trust Issues, nerds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 14:19:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14427252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackchaps/pseuds/blackchaps
Summary: Set right after and during the episode where John has Fusco dig into Harold's past. No plot to speak of, just me having some fun.





	Birds of a Feather

Harold was many things, but not a fool, not any longer. He tromped along the streets of New York, wishing for things he could no longer have, always aware of the people around him. It never paid to relax his vigilance. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he slowed a step to dig it out and take a look. It wasn’t Mr. Reese, so there was no urgency.

**Behind you**

He almost sighed in exasperation at his creation, but he was careful not to look over his shoulder into the crowd. Instead, he used one of the big, glass windows that he was passing, and now he sighed in frustration. Mr. Reese had set one of his assets on him. It seemed you could take the boy out of the CIA, but not the CIA out of the boy. He nearly laughed at his own foolishness, ducking into a small book store that he liked and beginning to browse. Detective Fusco remained outside but hardly inconspicuous.

“Can I help you today, Harold?”

Giving him a small smile, Harold shrugged. “Just looking. You know me.”

They shared a small laugh, and the book seller drifted away. Harold made his way to the antique table and chairs, sitting down to rest his leg. Mr. Reese would continue poking around in Harold’s life until he got enough answers to make him happy. At what point that would be was a mystery. Harold was briefly furious at all this trouble, but he set it away as wasted energy. He had too much to deal with to be angry. Numbers kept coming, and he couldn’t keep up alone.

He should’ve been tipped off by Mr. Reese’s patient voice on the phone. The man had given in far too easily. Harold was very tempted to teach Mr. Reese a lesson about privacy, because the man obviously had few boundaries.

A little slowly, his leg did ache, he made his way out of the store, picking up his tail and continuing down the block. Flipping open his private phone, he called for his car, and timed it perfectly, leaving Detective Fusco on the sidewalk, mouth hanging slightly open. Sinking back onto the leather, he assumed Mr. Reese was getting a phone call about now, but he’d let them play. For now.

By the end of the week, even in the midst of working a number, Harold found his patience stretched to the very limit by all of the identities he was being forced to assume and Mr. Reese’s blatant nosiness.

Mr. Reese wouldn’t quit until he was satisfied. It was beyond annoying. The events that occured with Mr. Dillinger could not happen again. Harold let it all stew in the back of his mind, but when the number had been resolved in an effective manner, he found himself glaring across the table at the smug Mr. Reese.

“I’m interviewing a new partner tomorrow, Mr. Reese. I’d appreciate it if you would have your Detective Fusco refrain from his surveillance,” Harold snapped, seeing the words hit Mr. Reese hard. It wasn’t a lie. He was sitting down for a chat with an ex-operative. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mr. Reese growled, “but if you want me gone just say the word.”

“Which word would that be? Trust? Or the lack thereof?” Harold glared right back at him, not caring if he sounded deranged.

Mr. Reese raised his eyebrows. “Or did you mean a new business partner? Buying a new business, Harold?”

Harold hated violence, but he had the urge to chuck something right at Mr. Reese’s head. Partnerships were never easy. He’d wanted to murder Nathan a few times, but he abhorred being dependent on a man who was determined to root out every secret for no reason other than to gloat over them.

“Tell me, what do want to know about me? My father’s name? My home town? What foods I prefer?” Harold drew one of his many wallets from the side drawer and threw it at him. “How many aliases I have? Where does it end? When is my dossier thick enough to make you happy?”

There was a long moment of silence as Mr. Reese scooped the wallet off the floor, flipped it out, and gave him a false grin. “Mr. Wren? Are all your aliases birds?” Before Harold could snarl at him, the grin slid away. “Harold, I can’t keep you safe, if I’m working blind.”

“Your job is to work the numbers. That is all.” Harold got to his feet, ignoring the wallet that plopped onto the table. “Nothing else. Nothing!”

Mr. Reese narrowed his eyes, hunching his shoulders slightly in his coat. “I’ll impress on Fusco that you’re off-limits.”

“Impress that also upon yourself, or, Mr. Reese, this partnership will be at an end. You have my word on that.” Harold watched him give a half-shrug before disappearing down the stairs. The man was frustrating beyond belief. Keep him safe? That was ridiculous. There was nowhere completely safe. And why would Mr. Reese even want to do that was a real mystery. All that mattered were the numbers, nothing else. Nothing.

********

John slunk out to the street, feeling about one inch tall, even though he was right. If he didn’t have information, he couldn’t act or react in time to be effective. The numbers were the mission, but so was Harold. There was no mission without him.

Fusco had some answers, and John listened carefully before sending him on his way with a grunt of thanks. He tucked the folder close and made a mental note not to underestimate Fusco’s ability to snoop out facts. The detective had skills. They just didn’t run to murder.

“Damn it,” John cursed, still moving with the crowd, but he glanced up at a surveillance camera with its blinking red light, and that’s when it hit him. The Machine had warned Harold. There was no possible way to hide from the Machine. It saw everything, and it shared its knowledge to some extent with its creator, no matter how much Harold denied it.

John had bungled this operation. He should’ve been patient, and finessed Harold, perhaps seduced him, instead of sending Fusco. Harold might never trust him now. Donuts and Sencha tea wouldn’t repair this, and as he slammed the door to his ratty hotel room, he had the thought that Harold was probably right.

Harold deserved a new partner. The idea made John want to pitch furniture out the window because there was no one he could trust to work with Harold. The man was a confusing mixture of innocence and genius, savvy with everything technologically based but hopeless with people. John slumped onto the bed and flipped through the file again, staring down at a young Harold.

Fusco had found some answers, but it only opened the door to more questions. Harold had been in hiding for years, and John had the feeling he’d never know why, and all he could do was hope it didn’t matter. Disgusted, John packed his duffle, stuffed the file at the very bottom, and went back out into the city.

Before John could decide his next step, his phone clicked in his ear. He tapped it on. “Yes?” His face flushed from something like shame, and he hoped it didn’t come through in his voice.

“I’m sorry to interrupt what I’m sure is a fascinating evening, but we have another number.” Harold didn’t sound any different. He had called, that was something.

“On my way.” John listened for Harold to click away before sighing in relief. He wasn’t fired, not yet. He felt a little pathetic at how much he wanted to keep his job, but he was helping people, actually helping people, instead of just killing. Harold had treated John with respect, and John had repaid him by spying on him.

Trust. John didn’t have it in him, not anymore. He walked a little faster, keeping his duffle close in the crowds headed home for the day. Spring was turning into summer but it was still cold enough to need a coat, and a light mist began to fall. Tonight would be miserable, if a guy was homeless, again. The library came into sight, and he almost hated how glad he was to see it. Hopefully, the number would take long enough that John wouldn’t have to find another crappy hotel right away.

There were homeless people cluttered in the doorway of the library, getting out of the wet, so he circled around to the side entrance. Once again, he was bothered by the books thrown all over the floor. It made an effective cover, but he didn’t like it, unable to cast aside years of treasuring them. Right as he ducked through the door, the rain began to pelt down, and he went upstairs to drop his duffle by his favorite chair before going to find a towel in their makeshift bathroom. Scrubbing his hair, he went out to the board, noticing the half-scowl on Finch’s face.

“Homeless people are in the front hallway again,” John said. “We need to make the building more secure.”

“We’re hiding in plain sight. A shiny new door will only draw attention,” Harold replied as he taped up another picture. “Our number going to be a bit of a challenge, since he hasn’t been on the internet since 1990.”

“There was internet back then?” John joked, not surprised when he only received a look of mild confusion.

“Indeed there was.” Harold made a gesture at him. “Are you finished shaking water all over my computers?”

“Maybe.” John took the towel back and hung up his damp coat over the radiant heat. When he returned, Harold was staring down at John’s duffle. John felt as if he owed Harold an apology, but it was sticking in his throat. Instead, he went to a knee, unzipped the bag, letting clothes spill out as he squirreled for the folder. Without meeting Harold’s eyes, he handed it to him. “You should know that Fusco is good at his job.”

Harold took the folder like it was a snake. “I suppose this will help me further eradicate certain identities.” He clutched it without opening it, brow furrowing. “Are these all your clothes?”

“I travel light.” John cleaned up his mess and tucked his favorite gun into the small of his back. He eased to his feet, careful to not look aggressive, and tucked his duffle out of the way. “Who is it?”

“I assumed you had an apartment.” Harold was still eyeing the duffle bag. “I certainly pay you enough.”

John really didn’t want to discuss his paranoia. That would just lead to another painful reminder that he was crap at trusting. “The number?”

With a side-eye, Harold went back to his computer. “Dean Olson, age 53, no driver’s license, no marriage license, last seen on Usenet, posting Star Trek fanfiction under his real name instead of an alias, which is the height of foolishness. Since that population of fanfiction writers was mostly made up of women, he didn’t last long.”

“Wait.” John went to stare at the picture of a white man, beard, blue eyes, pleasant face, no scars. “What?”

Harold gave a raw chuckle, sitting down and stuffing the folder in a drawer. John couldn’t help but notice. Harold started typing away. “Not to say that women drove him away. Men just usually felt safer in the gaming communities.”

“He likes Star Trek. Well, I’ll just head to the nearest convention.” John needed coffee. “Fanfiction?”

“Stories about the characters that are not authorized by whoever owns the source material.” Harold turned a monitor so John could see. “Apparently, he was quite a fan of Kirk/McCoy.”

John had to blink several times at the extremely explicit artwork. “I can’t un-see that, Harold.”

“It’s very well done.” Harold shrugged. “I never saw the merit behind pairing two men who were obviously heterosexual when there was so much canon behind Spock’s uncertain sexuality.”

It was time to sit down for a minute, and John wished he had coffee. “Got an address?”

“No.”

“Zip code?”

Harold sighed. “No credit card transactions. Nothing. He’s living off the grid, but apparently the Machine knows who he is and that he’s in trouble.”

That made no sense at all. John fidgeted, thinking it through. “No wife? Kids? Relatives?”

“Not that I can find.” Harold made a small noise of exasperation. “No employers. No activity on his social security card. It’s as if he vanished into smoke.”

John gave himself a moment to think. “We can’t find him, but the Machine did.” He remembered the surveillance camera. “He’s homeless, but somehow, he got on the Machine’s radar.”

“Someone out there knows him by name, and the Machine picked it up.” Harold’s eyes never left his screens. “There are thousands of homeless in Manhattan.”

“I’m betting he’s close, and I can rule out all the women.” John grinned, quick and easy, before remembering he was a screw-up, and Harold probably hated him. That made him think. “Do you need a bodyguard for this interview of yours?”

Harold looked at him a long moment. “I have them on retainer, remember?”

“I thought maybe you fired them after I broke their noses.” John smirked, hoping he looked smug.

“Why would I do that?” Harold didn’t wait for an answer. “Where should we look first?”

“Can you set facial recognition to the surveillance cameras?” John pulled his duffle out and unzipped it, looking for some clothes that were dirty. None of this would work. He’d have to hit the second-hand shop. 

“No.” Harold glared at him. “Well, yes, but you have no idea what you’re asking for. You have a plan?”

“I’ll start looking. I know a few people.” John emptied his wallet of cash, stuffed the wallet back in his duffle and left his gun in there, too. He’d pick up a knife on the way out. “This may take a while.”

“I’ll check the places I can.” Harold moved closer to him. “Buy a big coat and try to stay warm.”

“I’ve done this before.”

“And you almost died, were arrested, and smelled to high heaven.” Harold glared at him. “Try harder this time.”

It was impossible not to smile. “I’ll keep in touch.”

“Please do.” Harold frowned. “I’ll keep investigating.” He went back to his computers, and John made his way back into the cold and rain. The sun had set, and he went straight to the second-hand store, finding some clothes and leaving behind his suit once he’d paid. He bought a bottle of whiskey to keep warm and started walking.

The places looked the same, and he was careful to blend as he searched faces. He asked a few guys that he remembered, and he handed out a few bills, but no one knew anything. The dusk faded into dark, and he kept moving, keeping an eye out of surveillance cameras. There was no reason to search where the Machine couldn’t see. About the time the sun came up, he found her, not far from her usual corner, out of the rain and keeping a close eye on her shopping cart.

“Joan.”

“Handsome.” She grinned up at him. They shared minutes of silence, and he watched the men coming and going, mostly trying to keep warm. She patted him on the arm. “You had a good job! A fancy security man. What did you do to get back on the streets?”

Her question was startling accurate. He ducked his head. “I screwed up.” And the truth came tumbling out. “I wanted to protect him so much I betrayed him.” He really hoped Harold wasn’t listening.

“You always hold on to people a little hard.” She sighed. “John, you got a cigarette?”

He dug out the pack he’d picked up for her and handed it over. “These’ll kill you.”

She laughed and tucked them away. “You’re always easy. Check over by the shelter for that guy. I think he’s a do-gooder.”

His eyebrows went up. “What guy?”

Joan got her cart moving, ignoring him, no doubt heading for wherever she called home nowadays. John didn’t question how she knew. She was a queen of the streets. He went to get some coffee and lurk on street corners. Joan hadn’t said which shelter, and there were two that John considered likely. Unfortunately, they were some distance apart.

“Mr. Reese?”

“I’m here,” John murmured, staying in his shadow and worshipping his coffee. “Got anything?”

“Just concerned.” Harold said nothing for the longest time. “It was rather frigid last night.”

“I kept moving.” John down-played the idea in his head that Harold might’ve cared. “And there were trash cans on fire.”

“Civilization at its finest.”

The day passed slowly with nothing to show for it, and when the shelter opened, John was in line to get a spot. Harold had gone to check out the other shelter, in the guise of a wealthy donor, looking for a project. They were both worried that they were running out of time. John tried not to worry that Harold would interview his replacement today as he shuffled along. Finally, he got inside, and he did a slow recon.

“Any luck, Mr. Reese?”

John caught a glance of a man ducking through a door, and the hair color was right. “Still looking.” He made his way that direction, not hurrying. The door was marked Employees Only, and he found a nearby bunk to keep an eye on it. He also settled in to just watch. He’d shuffled through a few homeless shelters this last year, but he’d never seen one with guards at the door and surveillance cameras.

The beds were filling up though, and he was a little shocked when Paul sat down the bunk across from him.

“Thought you were gone, John,” Paul said, scratching his long beard.

“Thought you were dead, Paul.” John handed him the bottle of whiskey, and they shared a drink. “This place okay?”

“Worse places to be.” Paul sighed loudly. “Everyone said you got a cushy job with a big house and a fancy car.”

John managed a raw chuckle. “Got fired for being an asshole.”

Paul laughed, finishing the whiskey before handing it back. “Sounds like you.”

The door opened, and John made sure not to react but that was their guy coming out with a load of blankets in his arms. Older than the picture, obviously, but it was him. “Who’s that guy?”

“He’s always here. Never goes home, they say.” Paul shrugged and flopped over. “See ya at dawn.” He shut his eyes, and John covered him with a blanket. There was no getting Paul off the street. Some guys wouldn’t come in from the cold, no matter how much money you gave them. John settled in to watch, but it looked as if Dean Olson was exactly as Joan had labeled him – a do-gooder.

People moved back and forth, talking, always talking, and John did nothing but watch. He was good at it, having had plenty of practice. There was something up with this place, not overt, but subtle. The guards were real ones, not volunteers, and the people who should be volunteers moved with a purpose unusual for the setting.

“This place is it,” he said, not more than a grumble but Finch would pick it up.

“Now that we’ve settled on a location, I’m searching for everything connected.” Finch sounded annoyed. “Do you have eyes on him?”

“More or less.” John watched him help an elderly woman get settled, and she obviously knew him, patting him on the check. Olson laughed, gentle with her, and John turned to see if anyone else was watching. One of the guards had a look that was ugly, but that might’ve been nothing. Another of the volunteers rolled her eyes, and John made note to remember her face. “Finch, I won’t be able to get eyes on the back rooms.”

“I’ll be assisting with that, now that you’ve found him.”

John took the offered blanket and smiled up at him. “I’m John. Who are you?”

“You can call me Kirk.” Olson smiled back at him. “Jim Kirk, from Iowa.”

Years in the CIA made it possible to keep a straight face. “Thanks.” Just something to say so he didn’t smile.

Olson nodded. “Get some rest. Soup kitchen opens at noon.” He hurried away, working the room, and John got as comfortable as possible.

“This job is never dull,” he muttered.

********

Harold Crane was never early to his appointments. He always made them wait, not too long, but just long enough to start the interview on his terms. He’d made sure that the location of this interview was beyond scrutiny. It paid to be paranoid.

“Mr. Crane.” Alexander Turbin got to his feet in a rush, obviously relieved. He shoved his hand Harold’s direction.

Ignoring the hand, Harold took his spot behind the large desk, designed to intimidate. “Mr. Turbin, have a seat.”

Turbin sat down hard, eyes darting, and Harold took a moment to really look at him. The CIA did seem to like their men tall. Turbin didn’t fidget but he also didn’t quite meet Harold’s eyes. Harold waited an extra beat.

“There is a job?” Turbin asked into the charged silence.

“Of course there is.” Harold kept his voice low. “I just have a few questions. Obviously, your years at the CIA makes you highly desirable in the security field.”

There was a long pause, and Turbin swallowed hard. “Obviously.” It was an interesting answer. No one would touch Turbin, no one with any access to his record at the CIA. Harold made a show of opening his briefcase and getting out a pen and notepad.

“Just a few questions.” Harold watched as Turbin’s anxiety ramped up. He honestly looked as if he might faint. “I’ve hired a number of security consultants in my time, but the positions open are unique, so I may ask questions you find uncomfortable. Please feel free not to answer anything that upsets you.”

“Sure.” Turbin slicked his hands down his trousers. This man was such a long way from Mr. Reese’s studied calm. Mr. Dillinger had also been difficult to read, and in a way, had lead Harold to this day. Harold was very afraid he was walking the same road with Mr. Reese that he had with Mr. Dillinger. Trust was important when two people worked together, but Harold refused to believe that’s all there was to the matter. Research was needed, and so, Mr. Turbin was here. Harold took a shallow breath and began his list of questions.

“Do you work better alone or with a team?”

Again, Turbin swallowed. “I do what I’m told.”

“But which do you prefer?”

Turbin said nothing. He did take a deep breath.

“Moving along. If I employ you, how do you feel about working a job with very little information?”

Turbin blinked. He shrugged. “I’m use to it, but the less intel about a job means the more likely someone will get hurt. We learn everything we can so we can operate efficiently.”

“Everything?”

After a nod, Turbin went on, “You see, working in the dark is something I can do, but it’ll lead to a higher body count because I won’t know who the enemy is when they come at you.”

And just like that, Harold had the answer to his real question of why Mr. Reese, and perhaps even Mr. Dillinger, was so obsessed with digging up Harold’s past. “Is this training?”

“Yes. Pounded into us, really.” Turbin seemed a little more comfortable. “I do prefer to work alone.”

“I’d think so with a case of PTSD as bad as yours is.” Harold put his pen and pad away, satisfied, and taking note that Turbin didn’t deny it. “Where are you staying, Mr. Turbin?”

“Here and there.” Turbin’s eyes went shifty again. The CIA wasn’t after him, but at the same time, maybe he thought they were.

Harold retrieved a black AMEX card from his briefcase and slid it across the desk to him. “Find a good hotel and wait for my offer. Use the card for all your purchases.”

Turbin surged to his feet, staring down at the card for a moment before picking it up and tucking it away. “That easy?”

“Yes.” Harold would help him. “And thank you.” He moved around the desk and extended his hand. Turbin shook it carefully. Harold left as quickly as he was able, ducking around a corner to leave without being observed. Turbin didn’t try to follow him, which was a point in his favor and a point against him. Harold picked up his bodyguards and returned to his limousine. The sun was setting on New York, and he had them drop him off at the usual spot. The doorman smiled for him, and Harold went in the front door and out the back. It was time to get some work done at the library.

Replaying the audio from Mr. Reese’s phone was both painful and mind-boggling. Mr. Reese had a way of telling a lie with a truth and in this case Harold found it distasteful. And that wasn’t the biggest surprise. Harold’s mouth truly fell open when he heard that their Mr. Olson thought he was Jim Kirk, and he was no doubt imagining that he was inside the episode, ‘The City on the Edge of Forever.’ Mental illness or amnesia, it was impossible to diagnose from the library.

“Mr. Reese, any new developments?”

A negative hum was the only answer, and that was prudent given the over-crowding of homeless shelters in New York City. Harold re-doubled his efforts to find information on both the shelter and their faux Jim Kirk. He also put the episode on so he could refresh his memory to the finer details. It was truly great television.

********

Sometimes the numbers were long, complicated affairs, full of stakeouts and shootouts, and other times they were nothing more than John slapping someone on the wrist and reminding them that murder was a bad idea. He never knew what he was getting into, and the lack of intel occasionally made him grind his teeth in frustration. How was he supposed to help if he had no idea what was going on? The question kept popping up in his mind, and he hadn’t found an answer yet.

Kara wouldn’t have put up with this. She’d shot Harold in the head weeks ago. She demanded parameters on the job, and then she followed the rules to their usual bloody ends. John had hated operating like that, and if he did believe in karma, perhaps working with Harold was the chickens coming home to roost.

John could admit that his need to know more information about Harold was in part because of his lack of control over the numbers. The feeling that Harold was always holding information back was frustrating, and John had screwed up with the whole Fusco thing. They had to have some trust between them, right?

Muffled voices made John sit up a bit straighter, and cautiously, not making a sound, he made his way through the cots to the far door with a sliver of light under it.

“Mr. Reese, I believe I’ve discovered some unsettling information. This homeless center appears to be nothing but a front for the Mob to move people and goods around the city.” Harold’s voice almost made John flinch. “I’ve hacked into their shoddy computer system. They also use the homeless as cheap labor for a number of schemes.”

John clicked the ear bud off and listened at the door. A man and a woman were having a vigorous argument, and he was fairly sure that was their number. The door was solid, old-fashioned, and there would be no sneaking inside. John was quiet though, easing the doorknob around before starting through. Just John’s luck that it was a small office, not a storage room with places to hide.

They turned and looked straight at him, and Olson had his hand wrapped around the woman’s arm.

“Trouble?” John asked. “We’re trying to sleep.” He shut the door behind him and threw the lock. He also clicked his ear bud back on, moving closer to them, hoping he looked imposing.

“She doesn’t understand,” Olson panted out the words, shaking her. “The future is in her hands, and she’s got to listen.”

Her eyes were wide. “Jim, let me go.” Her voice trembled.

“Turn her loose.” John got closer, lifting his hand if he needed to move fast. Harold was babbling in his ear about plotlines and characters, and John latched onto a name. “Look, I found McCoy.”

Olson stood up straight. “What? Where?”

“Let me show you.” John eased another foot. “He’s sick. He needs your help.”

“She has to die. Spock found out!” Olson hissed, and John knew it was coming so he moved fast and hard, making sure Jim would stay down.

“You okay?”

“Yes?” she squeaked, moving back to collapse in a chair. “Was that a knife?”

John tucked it away. “I’ll take him out the back. You, just, go back to whatever it is you do.” He didn’t wait for her permission, jerking Jim up and dragging him in the direction of what he hoped was a back door. She watched for two seconds and then pointed the way, slamming the door behind them in an alley, and John was sure he heard it lock. Smart girl. “Harold?”

“Should I call the police?”

John let Olson, still unconscious, slump down to the bricks. “Maybe Star Fleet?”

“While I appreciate your humor, I’m unsure what is the correct path in this situation.”

Heaving out a sigh, John clicked off and rang up Fusco. As the sun came up, John started for the library, convinced they’d done their best in a crazy situation. He had coffee, and he hoped Harold wouldn’t mind him cramming into the small shower at the library. Harold wasn’t in sight when John came up the stairs, and he sat down in the only chair, just for a second.

The file was there, out for anyone to see. John flicked it open and nearly shot coffee out his nose. Turbin would get Harold killed within the week.

“I see you know him,” Harold said, stepping around the corner.

“He’s not right for this job. He’ll die within the week and take you with him.” John was afraid there was begging inside his voice. This was a horrible choice.

“I never considered it.” Harold shook his head. “I recently bought a property in Italy. I need a security chief there. Unless you think he’s not capable.”

John was afraid he’d let out a whoosh of relief. “He could do that.” He felt like he needed to get out of Harold’s chair, so he did. Taking his coffee with him, he had to say something. “So, you and I, we’re…” He searched for the right words, noticing that Harold wasn’t helping him. “Okay? I’m not fired?”

Harold took the seat, shut the file, and rummaged about, finding a key card and handing it to him. “Mr. Reese, I must apologize for my temper lately.” Now he seemed to take a deep breath. “I wasn’t happy with the Fusco situation but I over-reacted. I hope you understand that I’m often as much in the dark about these numbers as you are. I would never withhold information that could help you make good decisions in the field. Never.”

John heard the loophole, but he accepted it. “You are a very private person.” He flipped the key card around, noting the name and room number. “Do you own this hotel?”

“No, I just frequent there.” Harold made a gesture at the floor. “They’ll take care of your laundry, and you can have a massage. Sleeping on a cot half the night couldn’t have been comfortable.”

“I didn’t really sleep.” But he tucked the card away. He may go there, or he may not. Taking a big drink of his coffee, he hesitated. “Thanks, Harold.”

Harold looked up at him. “I’m not sure what for, but I’m also in your debt. I couldn’t do this without you. Trust me on that.”

Feeling awkward, the word ‘trust’ ringing in his ears, John nodded and went to gather up his duffle bag. They’d said enough, and it was fine, even good. He slung it over his shoulder and held up his hand. “Live long and prosper.”

A geeky grin broke out on Harold’s face. He raised his hand. “Peace and long life.”

Laughing softly, John left him there amongst his computers.

********

Harold watched him leave and listened for him locking up. It was late, past time for him to find a painkiller and a bed. He’d stay here tonight, not feeling up to trekking across town. For the first time in what seemed like forever, even with the pain, he felt good. They were helping people, and he’d keep an eye on their pretend Jim Kirk. He was delusional, but he deserved good care. It’d been a fascinating number. They were a good team, and he would do everything in the future within his power to keep Mr. Reese safe.

********  
the end


End file.
